Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 8: Savannah

Savannah, Monday, April 7th

Five days. In five days, I'll be somewhere else. Somewhere beautiful. The thought bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow as a smile—a real smile—tugs at my lips. It feels foreign on my face, like my muscles have forgotten how to form one properly.

I glance at the clock. It's 11:43 a.m., and with Tyler gone, there's no one to stop me from leaving. Jack is supposed to be watching me, but he won't check on me until my shift later. Still, I know better than to underestimate him—his eyes miss nothing, cataloging every detail for Tyler. The thought of going out makes my heart race—equal parts terrified and thrilled, like a prisoner planning their first escape.

I dart to my bedroom and hide the invitation in my pillowcase before reaching under my mattress, past the dog-eared novel, to where my most precious possession lies hidden. My sketchpad—a gift from my mother before she died—its cover worn from years of secret use. I grab a few pencils from their hiding place in an old sock and stuff everything into my frayed bag.

The alley stairs creak under my weight as I descend, freezing at every sound. At the bottom, I peer around cautiously. The alley is deserted, the overflowing dumpsters providing the only company. I slip out, keeping close to the wall until I reach the main street.

The Enchanted Moon Forest isn't far—just a twenty-minute walk to the outskirts of town where the wealthy neighborhoods begin. The forest surrounds those mansions like a protective barrier, separating the opulence of the rich from the squalor of our side of town.

As I walk, my steps grow lighter, the weight of the apartment seeming to fall away with each block I put between us. The afternoon sun filters through buildings, casting long shadows that I dodge like they might grab me and drag me back.

The transition from crumbling sidewalks to neatly maintained pathways marks the boundary between worlds. Ahead, the first trees of the Enchanted Moon rise like sentinels, their trunks thick with age and wisdom.

I slip between them, the canopy immediately muffling the sounds of the town behind me. The air here is different—cleaner, filled with the scent of pine and earth. My shoulders drop, tension bleeding out with each breath of forest air.

The familiar crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot guides me deeper, following a path I've walked many times before. It's my secret place, my sanctuary when the apartment becomes too much to bear. Tyler would never think to look for me here—he avoids this side of town, where the police actually respond to calls and where his kind of violence isn't overlooked with a shrug.

The sound of rushing water grows louder as I approach the stream that cuts through this section of the forest. Sunlight dapples the ground through the swaying branches overhead, creating shifting patterns that dance across my skin. Here, I can almost pretend I'm someone else—someone who wasn't broken and pieced back together wrong.

I settle beneath a towering pine, its lower branches creating a natural shelter. The massive trunk supports my back as I stretch my legs out on a bed of soft moss. The stream bubbles and churns just feet away, the white noise soothing my frayed nerves.

Opening my sketchpad, I flip past drawings of dreams—imagined homes with big windows, gardens full of flowers I've only seen in magazines, faces of a family I wish I had. I turn to a fresh page and begin to draw, the pencil moving across the paper as if it has a mind of its own.

As I sketch the stream, adding details of rocks and the way light plays on the water's surface, I lose myself in the gentle curves and shadows. My fingers work instinctively, capturing the smooth stones beneath the crystal water and the delicate ripples where the current breaks against them. A peculiar feeling washes over me—that distinct sensation of being watched prickles at the back of my neck, raising the fine hairs there. But strangely, I'm not afraid. There's something almost comforting about the presence I sense—curious rather than threatening.

I don't look up from my drawing, but I find myself smiling slightly, my pencil never pausing on the paper. Perhaps a deer or fox is watching me from the underbrush, eyes following my movements with the same fascination I feel toward this peaceful place. The forest feels alive around me, breathing with a rhythm that matches my own. In this moment, with the invitation to the Gala secure in my bag and six more days of relative freedom ahead, even the unknown doesn't seem so frightening. For once, the eyes on me don't make me want to hide.

The stream's gentle babble lulls me into a trance-like state, my pencil dancing across the paper as minutes blend into hours. I'm lost in the creation of my own little world, one where pain can't reach me. The peaceful sanctuary wraps around me like a blanket, shielding me from reality.

Until reality crashes back.

A shadow falls across my sketchpad, and I jolt upright. The golden afternoon light has shifted to the deeper amber of approaching evening. My heart leaps into my throat as I glance at my watch—4:17. The numbers might as well be a death sentence.

"s**t," I mutter, scrambling to gather my things. My shift starts at five, and Jack will definitely tell Tyler if I'm late. My ribs protest as I twist to stuff my sketchpad into my bag, a sharp reminder of Tyler's assault from over a week ago. I grab my side, hissing through clenched teeth. Funny how pain can be such a faithful companion—always there when you least want it.

The pain lingers, a dull throb beneath my fingertips. My body hasn't healed like it should—omega healing capabilities are impressive, but not when you're malnourished and constantly stressed. The bruises have faded from angry purple to sickly yellow-green, but the deeper damage remains.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and force myself to stand, ignoring the way my body complains at the sudden movement. The forest feels different now, the lengthening shadows threatening rather than comforting. What felt like a sanctuary minutes ago now feels like a trap—too far from where I need to be.

"Come on, Savannah," I mutter to myself, picking up the pace despite the pain. "Move."

The forest floor is trickier to navigate at this hour, roots and stones hiding in the deepening shadows. I stumble once, catching myself against a tree trunk, my palm scraping against rough bark. Blood beads along a shallow cut, and I wipe it hastily on my jeans.

My breath comes in short gasps as I push myself harder, following the path I know leads back to town. Each step jars my tender ribs, but the thought of what Jack might tell Tyler if I'm late drives me forward.

The trees begin to thin as I approach the edge of the forest. The comforting smell of pine and earth gives way to car exhaust and garbage as I break through the tree line, back into the world I know. The contrast is jarring—from natural beauty to crumbling buildings in the space of a few steps.

I check my watch again—4:36. If I run, I might make it.

My feet pound against cracked concrete as I dart between alleyways, taking every shortcut I know. The Rusty Tavern's sign comes into view, its neon letters flickering pathetically in the gathering dusk. The sight sends a chill down my spine despite my exertion.

My ribs are aching as I slow to catch my breath before rounding the final corner, not wanting to appear as desperate as I feel. Jack stands outside the back entrance, checking his watch with an irritated expression. My heart sinks as his sharp eyes scan me from head to toe, no doubt noting my windblown hair and the fresh scratch on my palm.

"Cutting it close, aren't you?" he calls as I approach, his eyes narrowing. "Tyler said I should keep an eye on you."

"I'm not late," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pain in my side. "My shift doesn't start till five."

Jack's lips twist into something between a smile and a sneer. "Yeah, well. Tyler also said to make sure you're here early to set up properly." His eyes linger on my bag, and I resist the urge to clutch it closer.

I bite back a retort. Jack isn't as cruel as Tyler, but he's not my friend either. He'll report anything I say or do.

"Sorry," I murmur instead, dropping my gaze to the ground. "It won't happen again."

"Better not." He steps aside, gesturing toward the door with a mock bow. "After you, princess."

I slip past him, clutching my bag to my chest as I head inside. I'll need to stash it somewhere safe before my shift starts—can't have Jack getting curious about what I've been doing. Resisting the urge to curtsy, I make my way through the back hallway. If I'm a princess, this must be my castle—complete with its very own dragon breathing beer-scented fire. Cinderella got a fairy godmother; I got Jack. The universe really has a twisted sense of humor.

The weight of my secret—the Gala invitation hidden in my pillowcase—suddenly feels dangerous. Five more days.

I just hope I can make it.

The last customer staggers out the door a little after 2 a.m. as I wipe down the scarred bar top one final time, my arms aching from hours of carrying trays and dodging wandering hands. Jack counts the register, eyeing me with suspicion when he thinks I'm not looking.

"Don't forget to sweep," he barks, shoving bills into the safe beneath the counter.

I nod silently, grabbing the broom from the closet. The bristles are worn, barely effective against the floor littered with peanut shells, cigarette butts, and shattered glass. My muscles scream with each sweep, the bruises on my ribs pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

"I'm heading out," Jack announces, pocketing the keys. "Lock up when you're done. And don't even think about taking anything—I've counted everything twice."

The door slams behind him, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The tavern feels different when empty—still oppressive, but quieter. My footsteps echo as I finish my chores, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of the ancient building settling.

I lock the front door and drag myself up the back staircase to the apartment. Each step feels like climbing a mountain, my body betraying me with its weakness. The key sticks in the lock—it always does—and I have to jiggle it just right before the door swings open.

The apartment is dark and cold. Tyler never pays for heat unless absolutely necessary. I fumble for the light switch, wincing as the bare bulb flickers to life, casting harsh shadows across the peeling wallpaper.

My bedroom door hangs slightly ajar, and my heart freezes. Did I forget to close it? Did Tyler come back early? Did Jack search my things? I approach cautiously, pushing the door open with trembling fingers.

Everything looks untouched, but appearances can be deceiving. I glance at my bag slumped in the corner where I'd tossed it before my shift—still there. The loose floorboard where I keep my meager savings—undisturbed. The envelope with the Gala invitation tucked inside my pillowcase—safe.

Relief floods through me, leaving me lightheaded. I sink onto the edge of my bed, the ancient springs protesting beneath my weight. For a moment, I just sit there, letting the adrenaline drain away.

With heavy limbs, I rise and peel off my work clothes, the fabric stiff with spilled beer and sweat. My uniform joins the small pile of laundry in the corner—I'll wash it tomorrow in the sink, hang it to dry over the shower rod. I pull on my nightshirt, the cotton worn thin from countless washings, but soft against my skin.

The cracked mirror on my dresser catches my reflection as I carefully arrange my few possessions—a hairbrush with missing bristles, a nearly empty bottle of drugstore lotion, the stub of a lipstick I found discarded in the bar's bathroom. Small treasures in a life of nothing.

I cross to the window, pushing aside the faded curtain. The street below lies empty and still, illuminated by a single flickering streetlight. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, the sound echoing between buildings before fading into silence.

This view—these same broken sidewalks and abandoned storefronts—has been my world for four years. Since my parents died. Since Tyler became my keeper instead of my stepbrother.

The night air seeps through the cracked glass, raising goosebumps on my arms. I let the curtain fall back into place and turn away.

My bed creaks as I slide beneath the threadbare blanket. The sheets are cold, but they'll warm soon enough. I curl onto my side, careful of my tender ribs, and pull the covers up to my chin.

In the darkness, I reach under my pillow, fingers brushing against the envelope. The invitation to the Gala. My ticket out.

Four more days.

My breathing slows as exhaustion claims me, but even as my body relaxes, something inside me hardens. My fists unclench against the mattress, but my resolve tightens. My eyes drift closed, heavy with fatigue, but behind my eyelids, I see a future beyond these walls.

The firm set of my jaw is the last thing to relax as sleep pulls me under. No matter what happens, no matter what Tyler does or says, I will be at that Gala.

I will escape.